Chapter 31. The Wedding

Dombey and Son

by Charles Dickens

Dawn with its passionless blank face, steals shivering to the
church beneath which lies the dust of little Paul and his mother, and
looks in at the windows. It is cold and dark. Night crouches yet,
upon the pavement, and broods, sombre and heavy, in nooks and corners
of the building. The steeple-clock, perched up above the houses,
emerging from beneath another of the countless ripples in the tide of
time that regularly roll and break on the eternal shore, is greyly
visible, like a stone beacon, recording how the sea flows on; but
within doors, dawn, at first, can only peep at night, and see that it
is there.

Hovering feebly round the church, and looking in, dawn moans and
weeps for its short reign, and its tears trickle on the window-glass,
and the trees against the church-wall bow their heads, and wring
their many hands in sympathy. Night, growing pale before it,
gradually fades out of the church, but lingers in the vaults below,
and sits upon the coffins. And now comes bright day, burnishing the
steeple-clock, and reddening the spire, and drying up the tears of
dawn, and stifling its complaining; and the dawn, following the
night, and chasing it from its last refuge, shrinks into the vaults
itself and hides, with a frightened face, among the dead, until night
returns, refreshed, to drive it out.

And now, the mice, who have been busier with the prayer-books
than their proper owners, and with the hassocks, more worn by their
little teeth than by human knees, hide their bright eyes in their
holes, and gather close together in affright at the resounding
clashing of the church-door. For the beadle, that man of power, comes
early this morning with the sexton; and Mrs Miff, the wheezy little
pew-opener - a mighty dry old lady, sparely dressed, with not an inch
of fulness anywhere about her - is also here, and has been waiting at
the church-gate half-an-hour, as her place is, for the beadle.

A vinegary face has Mrs Miff, and a mortified bonnet, and eke a
thirsty soul for sixpences and shillings. Beckoning to stray people
to come into pews, has given Mrs Miff an air of mystery; and there is
reservation in the eye of Mrs Miff, as always knowing of a softer
seat, but having her suspicions of the fee. There is no such fact as
Mr Miff, nor has there been, these twenty years, and Mrs Miff would
rather not allude to him. He held some bad opinions, it would seem,
about free seats; and though Mrs Miff hopes he may be gone upwards,
she couldn't positively undertake to say so.

Busy is Mrs Miff this morning at the church-door, beating and
dusting the altar-cloth, the carpet, and the cushions; and much has
Mrs Miff to say, about the wedding they are going to have. Mrs Miff
is told, that the new furniture and alterations in the house cost
full five thousand pound if they cost a penny; and Mrs Miff has
heard, upon the best authority, that the lady hasn't got a sixpence
wherewithal to bless herself. Mrs Miff remembers, like wise, as if it
had happened yesterday, the first wife's funeral, and then the
christening, and then the other funeral; and Mrs Miff says,
by-the-bye she'll soap-and-water that 'ere tablet presently, against
the company arrive. Mr Sownds the Beadle, who is sitting in the sun
upon the church steps all this time (and seldom does anything else,
except, in cold weather, sitting by the fire), approves of Mrs Miff's
discourse, and asks if Mrs Miff has heard it said, that the lady is
uncommon handsome? The information Mrs Miff has received, being of
this nature, Mr Sownds the Beadle, who, though orthodox and
corpulent, is still an admirer of female beauty, observes, with
unction, yes, he hears she is a spanker - an expression that seems
somewhat forcible to Mrs Miff, or would, from any lips but those of
Mr Sownds the Beadle.

In Mr Dombey's house, at this same time, there is great stir and
bustle, more especially among the women: not one of whom has had a
wink of sleep since four o'clock, and all of whom were fully dressed
before six. Mr Towlinson is an object of greater consideration than
usual to the housemaid, and the cook says at breakfast time that one
wedding makes many, which the housemaid can't believe, and don't
think true at all. Mr Towlinson reserves his sentiments on this
question; being rendered something gloomy by the engagement of a
foreigner with whiskers (Mr Towlinson is whiskerless himself), who
has been hired to accompany the happy pair to Paris, and who is busy
packing the new chariot. In respect of this personage, Mr Towlinson
admits, presently, that he never knew of any good that ever come of
foreigners; and being charged by the ladies with prejudice, says,
look at Bonaparte who was at the head of 'em, and see what he was
always up to! Which the housemaid says is very true.

The pastry-cook is hard at work in the funereal room in Brook
Street, and the very tall young men are busy looking on. One of the
very tall young men already smells of sherry, and his eyes have a
tendency to become fixed in his head, and to stare at objects without
seeing them. The very tall young man is conscious of this failing in
himself; and informs his comrade that it's his 'exciseman.' The very
tall young man would say excitement, but his speech is hazy.

The men who play the bells have got scent of the marriage; and
the marrow-bones and cleavers too; and a brass band too. The first,
are practising in a back settlement near Battlebridge; the second,
put themselves in communication, through their chief, with Mr
Towlinson, to whom they offer terms to be bought off; and the third,
in the person of an artful trombone, lurks and dodges round the
corner, waiting for some traitor tradesman to reveal the place and
hour of breakfast, for a bribe. Expectation and excitement extend
further yet, and take a wider range. From Balls Pond, Mr Perch brings
Mrs Perch to spend the day with Mr Dombey's servants, and accompany
them, surreptitiously, to see the wedding. In Mr Toots's lodgings, Mr
Toots attires himself as if he were at least the Bridegroom;
determined to behold the spectacle in splendour from a secret corner
of the gallery, and thither to convey the Chicken: for it is Mr
Toots's desperate intent to point out Florence to the Chicken, then
and there, and openly to say, 'Now, Chicken, I will not deceive you
any longer; the friend I have sometimes mentioned to you is myself;
Miss Dombey is the object of my passion; what are your opinions,
Chicken, in this state of things, and what, on the spot, do you
advise? The so-much-to-be-astonished Chicken, in the meanwhile, dips
his beak into a tankard of strong beer, in Mr Toots's kitchen, and
pecks up two pounds of beefsteaks. In Princess's Place, Miss Tox is
up and doing; for she too, though in sore distress, is resolved to
put a shilling in the hands of Mrs Miff, and see the ceremony which
has a cruel fascination for her, from some lonely corner. The
quarters of the wooden Midshipman are all alive; for Captain Cuttle,
in his ankle-jacks and with a huge shirt-collar, is seated at his
breakfast, listening to Rob the Grinder as he reads the marriage
service to him beforehand, under orders, to the end that the Captain
may perfectly understand the solemnity he is about to witness: for
which purpose, the Captain gravely lays injunctions on his chaplain,
from time to time, to 'put about,' or to 'overhaul that 'ere article
again,' or to stick to his own duty, and leave the Amens to him, the
Captain; one of which he repeats, whenever a pause is made by Rob the
Grinder, with sonorous satisfaction.

Besides all this, and much more, twenty nursery-maids in Mr
Dombey's street alone, have promised twenty families of little women,
whose instinctive interest in nuptials dates from their cradles, that
they shall go and see the marriage. Truly, Mr Sownds the Beadle has
good reason to feel himself in office, as he suns his portly figure
on the church steps, waiting for the marriage hour. Truly, Mrs Miff
has cause to pounce on an unlucky dwarf child, with a giant baby, who
peeps in at the porch, and drive her forth with indignation!

Cousin Feenix has come over from abroad, expressly to attend the
marriage. Cousin Feenix was a man about town, forty years ago; but he
is still so juvenile in figure and in manner, and so well got up,
that strangers are amazed when they discover latent wrinkles in his
lordship's face, and crows' feet in his eyes: and first observe him,
not exactly certain when he walks across a room, of going quite
straight to where he wants to go. But Cousin Feenix, getting up at
half-past seven o'clock or so, is quite another thing from Cousin
Feenix got up; and very dim, indeed, he looks, while being shaved at
Long's Hotel, in Bond Street.

Mr Dombey leaves his dressing-room, amidst a general whisking
away of the women on the staircase, who disperse in all directions,
with a great rustling of skirts, except Mrs Perch, who, being (but
that she always is) in an interesting situation, is not nimble, and
is obliged to face him, and is ready to sink with confusion as she
curtesys; - may Heaven avert all evil consequences from the house of
Perch! Mr Dombey walks up to the drawing-room, to bide his time.
Gorgeous are Mr Dombey's new blue coat, fawn-coloured pantaloons, and
lilac waistcoat; and a whisper goes about the house, that Mr Dombey's
hair is curled.

A double knock announces the arrival of the Major, who is
gorgeous too, and wears a whole geranium in his button-hole, and has
his hair curled tight and crisp, as well the Native knows.

'Dombey!' says the Major, putting out both hands, 'how are
you?'

'Major,' says Mr Dombey, 'how are You?'

'By Jove, Sir,' says the Major, 'Joey B. is in such case this
morning, Sir,' - and here he hits himself hard upon the breast - 'In
such case this morning, Sir, that, damme, Dombey, he has half a mind
to make a double marriage of it, Sir, and take the mother.'

Mr Dombey smiles; but faintly, even for him; for Mr Dombey feels
that he is going to be related to the mother, and that, under those
circumstances, she is not to be joked about.

'Dombey,' says the Major, seeing this, 'I give you joy. I
congratulate you, Dombey. By the Lord, Sir,' says the Major, 'you are
more to be envied, this day, than any man in England!'

Here again Mr Dombey's assent is qualified; because he is going
to confer a great distinction on a lady; and, no doubt, she is to be
envied most.

'As to Edith Granger, Sir,' pursues the Major, 'there is not a
woman in all Europe but might - and would, Sir, you will allow
Bagstock to add - and would- give her ears, and her earrings, too, to
be in Edith Granger's place.'

'You are good enough to say so, Major,' says Mr Dombey.

'Dombey,' returns the Major, 'you know it. Let us have no false
delicacy. You know it. Do you know it, or do you not, Dombey?' says
the Major, almost in a passion.

'Oh, really, Major - '

'Damme, Sir,' retorts the Major, 'do you know that fact, or do
you not? Dombey! Is old Joe your friend? Are we on that footing of
unreserved intimacy, Dombey, that may justify a man - a blunt old
Joseph B., Sir - in speaking out; or am I to take open order, Dombey,
and to keep my distance, and to stand on forms?'

'My dear Major Bagstock,' says Mr Dombey, with a gratified air,
'you are quite warm.'

'By Gad, Sir,' says the Major, 'I am warm. Joseph B. does not
deny it, Dombey. He is warm. This is an occasion, Sir, that calls
forth all the honest sympathies remaining in an old, infernal,
battered, used-up, invalided, J. B. carcase. And I tell you what,
Dombey - at such a time a man must blurt out what he feels, or put a
muzzle on; and Joseph Bagstock tells you to your face, Dombey, as he
tells his club behind your back, that he never will be muzzled when
Paul Dombey is in question. Now, damme, Sir,' concludes the Major,
with great firmness, 'what do you make of that?'

'Major,' says Mr Dombey, 'I assure you that I am really obliged
to you. I had no idea of checking your too partial friendship.'

'Not too partial, Sir!' exclaims the choleric Major. 'Dombey, I
deny it.'

'Your friendship I will say then,' pursues Mr Dombey, 'on any
account. Nor can I forget, Major, on such an occasion as the present,
how much I am indebted to it.'

'Dombey,' says the Major, with appropriate action, 'that is the
hand of Joseph Bagstock: of plain old Joey B., Sir, if you like that
better! That is the hand, of which His Royal Highness the late Duke
of York, did me the honour to observe, Sir, to His Royal Highness the
late Duke of Kent, that it was the hand of Josh: a rough and tough,
and possibly an up-to-snuff, old vagabond. Dombey, may the present
moment be the least unhappy of our lives. God bless you!'

Now enters Mr Carker, gorgeous likewise, and smiling like a
wedding-guest indeed. He can scarcely let Mr Dombey's hand go, he is
so congratulatory; and he shakes the Major's hand so heartily at the
same time, that his voice shakes too, in accord with his arms, as it
comes sliding from between his teeth.

'The very day is auspicious,' says Mr Carker. 'The brightest and
most genial weather! I hope I am not a moment late?'

'Punctual to your time, Sir,' says the Major.

'I am rejoiced, I am sure,' says Mr Carker. 'I was afraid I
might be a few seconds after the appointed time, for I was delayed by
a procession of waggons; and I took the liberty of riding round to
Brook Street' - this to Mr Dombey - 'to leave a few poor rarities of
flowers for Mrs Dombey. A man in my position, and so distinguished as
to be invited here, is proud to offer some homage in acknowledgment
of his vassalage: and as I have no doubt Mrs Dombey is overwhelmed
with what is costly and magnificent;' with a strange glance at his
patron; 'I hope the very poverty of my offering, may find favour for
it.'

'Mrs Dombey, that is to be,' returns Mr Dombey, condescendingly,
'will be very sensible of your attention, Carker, I am sure.'

'And if she is to be Mrs Dombey this morning, Sir,' says the
Major, putting down his coffee-cup, and looking at his watch, 'it's
high time we were off!'

Forth, in a barouche, ride Mr Dombey, Major Bagstock, and Mr
Carker, to the church. Mr Sownds the Beadle has long risen from the
steps, and is in waiting with his cocked hat in his hand. Mrs Miff
curtseys and proposes chairs in the vestry. Mr Dombey prefers
remaining in the church. As he looks up at the organ, Miss Tox in the
gallery shrinks behind the fat leg of a cherubim on a monument, with
cheeks like a young Wind. Captain Cuttle, on the contrary, stands up
and waves his hook, in token of welcome and encouragement. Mr Toots
informs the Chicken, behind his hand, that the middle gentleman, he
in the fawn-coloured pantaloons, is the father of his love. The
Chicken hoarsely whispers Mr Toots that he's as stiff a cove as ever
he see, but that it is within the resources of Science to double him
up, with one blow in the waistcoat.

Mr Sownds and Mrs Miff are eyeing Mr Dombey from a little
distance, when the noise of approaching wheels is heard, and Mr
Sownds goes out. Mrs Miff, meeting Mr Dombey's eye as it is withdrawn
from the presumptuous maniac upstairs, who salutes him with so much
urbanity, drops a curtsey, and informs him that she believes his
'good lady' is come. Then there is a crowding and a whispering at the
door, and the good lady enters, with a haughty step.

There is no sign upon her face, of last night's suffering; there
is no trace in her manner, of the woman on the bended knees, reposing
her wild head, in beautiful abandonment, upon the pillow of the
sleeping girl. That girl, all gentle and lovely, is at her side - a
striking contrast to her own disdainful and defiant figure, standing
there, composed, erect, inscrutable of will, resplendent and majestic
in the zenith of its charms, yet beating down, and treading on, the
admiration that it challenges.

There is a pause while Mr Sownds the Beadle glides into the
vestry for the clergyman and clerk. At this juncture, Mrs Skewton
speaks to Mr Dombey: more distinctly and emphatically than her custom
is, and moving at the same time, close to Edith.

'My dear Dombey,' said the good Mama, 'I fear I must relinquish
darling Florence after all, and suffer her to go home, as she herself
proposed. After my loss of to-day, my dear Dombey, I feel I shall not
have spirits, even for her society.'

'Had she not better stay with you?' returns the Bridegroom.

'I think not, my dear Dombey. No, I think not. I shall be better
alone. Besides, my dearest Edith will be her natural and constant
guardian when you return, and I had better not encroach upon her
trust, perhaps. She might be jealous. Eh, dear Edith?'

The affectionate Mama presses her daughter's arm, as she says
this; perhaps entreating her attention earnestly.

'To be serious, my dear Dombey,' she resumes, 'I will relinquish
our dear child, and not inflict my gloom upon her. We have settled
that, just now. She fully understands, dear Dombey. Edith, my dear, -
she fully understands.'

Again, the good mother presses her daughter's arm. Mr Dombey
offers no additional remonstrance; for the clergyman and clerk
appear; and Mrs Miff, and Mr Sownds the Beadle, group the party in
their proper places at the altar rails.

The sun is shining down, upon the golden letters of the ten
commandments. Why does the Bride's eye read them, one by one? Which
one of all the ten appears the plainest to her in the glare of light?
False Gods; murder; theft; the honour that she owes her mother; -
which is it that appears to leave the wall, and printing itself in
glowing letters, on her book!

"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"'

Cousin Feenix does that. He has come from Baden-Baden on
purpose. 'Confound it,' Cousin Feenix says - good-natured creature,
Cousin Feenix - 'when we do get a rich City fellow into the family,
let us show him some attention; let us do something for him.' I give
this woman to be married to this man,' saith Cousin Feenix therefore.
Cousin Feenix, meaning to go in a straight line, but turning off
sideways by reason of his wilful legs, gives the wrong woman to be
married to this man, at first - to wit, a brides- maid of some
condition, distantly connected with the family, and ten years Mrs
Skewton's junior - but Mrs Miff, interposing her mortified bonnet,
dexterously turns him back, and runs him, as on castors, full at the
'good lady:' whom Cousin Feenix giveth to married to this man
accordingly. And will they in the sight of heaven - ? Ay, that they
will: Mr Dombey says he will. And what says Edith? She will. So, from
that day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in
sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do them
part, they plight their troth to one another, and are married. In a
firm, free hand, the Bride subscribes her name in the register, when
they adjourn to the vestry. 'There ain't a many ladies come here,'
Mrs Miff says with a curtsey - to look at Mrs Miff, at such a season,
is to make her mortified bonnet go down with a dip - writes their
names like this good lady!' Mr Sownds the Beadle thinks it is a truly
spanking signature, and worthy of the writer - this, however, between
himself and conscience. Florence signs too, but unapplauded, for her
hand shakes. All the party sign; Cousin Feenix last; who puts his
noble name into a wrong place, and enrols himself as having been born
that morning. The Major now salutes the Bride right gallantly, and
carries out that branch of military tactics in reference to all the
ladies: notwithstanding Mrs Skewton's being extremely hard to kiss,
and squeaking shrilly in the sacred edIfice. The example is followed
by Cousin. Feenix and even by Mr Dombey. Lastly, Mr Carker, with hIs
white teeth glistening, approaches Edith, more as if he meant to bite
her, than to taste the sweets that linger on her lips.

There is a glow upon her proud cheek, and a flashing in her
eyes, that may be meant to stay him; but it does not, for he salutes
her as the rest have done, and wishes her all happiness.

'If wishes,' says he in a low voice, 'are not superfluous,
applied to such a union.'

'I thank you, Sir,' she answers, with a curled lip, and a
heaving bosom.

But, does Edith feel still, as on the night when she knew that
Mr Dombey would return to offer his alliance, that Carker knows her
thoroughly, and reads her right, and that she is more degraded by his
knowledge of her, than by aught else? Is it for this reason that her
haughtiness shrinks beneath his smile, like snow within the hands
that grasps it firmly, and that her imperious glance droops In
meeting his, and seeks the ground?

'I am proud to see,' said Mr Carker, with a servile stooping of
his neck, which the revelations making by his eyes and teeth proclaim
to be a lie, 'I am proud to see that my humble offering is graced by
Mrs Dombey's hand, and permitted to hold so favoured a place in so
joyful an occasion.'

Though she bends her head, in answer, there is something in the
momentary action of her hand, as if she would crush the flowers it
holds, and fling them, with contempt, upon the ground. But, she puts
the hand through the arm of her new husband, who has been standing
near, conversing with the Major, and is proud again, and motionless,
and silent.

The carriages are once more at the church door. Mr Dombey, with
his bride upon his arm, conducts her through the twenty families of
little women who are on the steps, and every one of whom remembers
the fashion and the colour of her every article of dress from that
moment, and reproduces it on her doll, who is for ever being married.
Cleopatra and Cousin Feenix enter the same carriage. The Major hands
into a second carriage, Florence, and the bridesmaid who so narrowly
escaped being given away by mistake, and then enters it himself, and
is followed by Mr Carker. Horses prance and caper; coachmen and
footmen shine in fluttering favours, flowers, and new-made liveries.
Away they dash and rattle through the streets; and as they pass
along, a thousand heads are turned to look at them, and a thousand
sober moralists revenge themselves for not being married too, that
morning, by reflecting that these people little think such happiness
can't last.

Miss Tox emerges from behind the cherubim's leg, when all is
quiet, and comes slowly down from the gallery. Miss Tox's eyes are
red, and her pocket-handkerchief is damp. She is wounded, but not
exasperated, and she hopes they may be happy. She quite admits to
herself the beauty of the bride, and her own comparatively feeble and
faded attractions; but the stately image of Mr Dombey in his lilac
waistcoat, and his fawn-coloured pantaloons, is present to her mind,
and Miss Tox weeps afresh, behind her veil, on her way home to
Princess's Place. Captain Cuttle, having joined in all the amens and
responses, with a devout growl, feels much improved by his religious
exercises; and in a peaceful frame of mind pervades the body of the
church, glazed hat in hand, and reads the tablet to the memory of
little Paul. The gallant Mr Toots, attended by the faithful Chicken,
leaves the building in torments of love. The Chicken is as yet unable
to elaborate a scheme for winning Florence, but his first idea has
gained possession of him, and he thinks the doubling up of Mr Dombey
would be a move in the right direction. Mr Dombey's servants come out
of their hiding-places, and prepare to rush to Brook Street, when
they are delayed by symptoms of indisposition on the part of Mrs
Perch, who entreats a glass of water, and becomes alarming; Mrs Perch
gets better soon, however, and is borne away; and Mrs Miff, and Mr
Sownds the Beadle, sit upon the steps to count what they have gained
by the affair, and talk it over, while the sexton tolls a funeral.

Now, the carriages arrive at the Bride's residence, and the
players on the bells begin to jingle, and the band strikes up, and Mr
Punch, that model of connubial bliss, salutes his wife. Now, the
people run, and push, and press round in a gaping throng, while Mr
Dombey, leading Mrs Dombey by the hand, advances solemnly into the
Feenix Halls. Now, the rest of the wedding party alight, and enter
after them. And why does Mr Carker, passing through the people to the
hall-door, think of the old woman who called to him in the Grove that
morning? Or why does Florence, as she passes, think, with a tremble,
of her childhood, when she was lost, and of the visage of Good Mrs
Brown?

Now, there are more congratulations on this happiest of days,
and more company, though not much; and now they leave the
drawing-room, and range themselves at table in the dark-brown
dining-room, which no confectioner can brighten up, let him garnish
the exhausted negroes with as many flowers and love-knots as he
will.

The pastry-cook has done his duty like a man, though, and a rich
breakfast is set forth. Mr and Mrs Chick have joined the party, among
others. Mrs Chick admires that Edith should be, by nature, such a
perfect Dombey; and is affable and confidential to Mrs Skewton, whose
mind is relieved of a great load, and who takes her share of the
champagne. The very tall young man who suffered from excitement
early, is better; but a vague sentiment of repentance has seized upon
him, and he hates the other very tall young man, and wrests dishes
from him by violence, and takes a grim delight in disobliging the
company. The company are cool and calm, and do not outrage the black
hatchments of pictures looking down upon them, by any excess of
mirth. Cousin Feenix and the Major are the gayest there; but Mr
Carker has a smile for the whole table. He has an especial smile for
the Bride, who very, very seldom meets it.

Cousin Feenix rises, when the company have breakfasted, and the
servants have left the room; and wonderfully young he looks, with his
white wristbands almost covering his hands (otherwise rather bony),
and the bloom of the champagne in his cheeks.

'Upon my honour,' says Cousin Feenix, 'although it's an unusual
sort of thing in a private gentleman's house, I must beg leave to
call upon you to drink what is usually called a - in fact a toast.

The Major very hoarsely indicates his approval. Mr Carker,
bending his head forward over the table in the direction of Cousin
Feenix, smiles and nods a great many times.

'A - in fact it's not a - ' Cousin Feenix beginning again, thus,
comes to a dead stop.

'Hear, hear!' says the Major, in a tone of conviction.

Mr Carker softly claps his hands, and bending forward over the
table again, smiles and nods a great many more times than before, as
if he were particularly struck by this last observation, and desired
personally to express his sense of the good it has done

'It is,' says Cousin Feenix, 'an occasion in fact, when the
general usages of life may be a little departed from, without
impropriety; and although I never was an orator in my life, and when
I was in the House of Commons, and had the honour of seconding the
address, was - in fact, was laid up for a fortnight with the
consciousness of failure - '

The Major and Mr Carker are so much delighted by this fragment
of personal history, that Cousin Feenix laughs, and addressing them
individually, goes on to say:

'And in point of fact, when I was devilish ill - still, you
know, I feel that a duty devolves upon me. And when a duty devolves
upon an Englishman, he is bound to get out of it, in my opinion, in
the best way he can. Well! our family has had the gratification,
to-day, of connecting itself, in the person of my lovely and
accomplished relative, whom I now see - in point of fact, present -
'

Here there is general applause.

'Present,' repeats Cousin Feenix, feeling that it is a neat
point which will bear repetition, - 'with one who - that is to say,
with a man, at whom the finger of scorn can never - in fact, with my
honourable friend Dombey, if he will allow me to call him so.'

Cousin Feenix bows to Mr Dombey; Mr Dombey solemnly returns the
bow; everybody is more or less gratified and affected by this
extraordinary, and perhaps unprecedented, appeal to the feelings.

'I have not,' says Cousin Feenix, 'enjoyed those opportunities
which I could have desired, of cultivating the acquaintance of my
friend Dombey, and studying those qualities which do equal honour to
his head, and, in point of fact, to his heart; for it has been my
misfortune to be, as we used to say in my time in the House of
Commons, when it was not the custom to allude to the Lords, and when
the order of parliamentary proceedings was perhaps better observed
than it is now - to be in - in point of fact,' says Cousin Feenix,
cherishing his joke, with great slyness, and finally bringing it out
with a jerk, "'in another place!"'

The Major falls into convulsions, and is recovered with
difficulty.

'But I know sufficient of my friend Dombey,' resumes Cousin
Feenix in a graver tone, as if he had suddenly become a sadder and
wiser man' 'to know that he is, in point of fact, what may be
emphatically called a - a merchant - a British merchant - and a - and
a man. And although I have been resident abroad, for some years (it
would give me great pleasure to receive my friend Dombey, and
everybody here, at Baden-Baden, and to have an opportunity of making
'em known to the Grand Duke), still I know enough, I flatter myself,
of my lovely and accomplished relative, to know that she possesses
every requisite to make a man happy, and that her marriage with my
friend Dombey is one of inclination and affection on both sides.'

Many smiles and nods from Mr Carker.

'Therefore,' says Cousin Feenix, 'I congratulate the family of
which I am a member, on the acquisition of my friend Dombey. I
congratulate my friend Dombey on his union with my lovely and
accomplished relative who possesses every requisite to make a man
happy; and I take the liberty of calling on you all, in point of
fact, to congratulate both my friend Dombey and my lovely and
accomplished relative, on the present occasion.'

The speech of Cousin Feenix is received with great applause, and
Mr Dombey returns thanks on behalf of himself and Mrs Dombey. J. B.
shortly afterwards proposes Mrs Skewton. The breakfast languishes
when that is done, the violated hatchments are avenged, and Edith
rises to assume her travelling dress.

All the servants in the meantime, have been breakfasting below.
Champagne has grown too common among them to be mentioned, and roast
fowls, raised pies, and lobster-salad, have become mere drugs. The
very tall young man has recovered his spirits, and again alludes to
the exciseman. His comrade's eye begins to emulate his own, and he,
too, stares at objects without taking cognizance thereof. There is a
general redness in the faces of the ladies; in the face of Mrs Perch
particularly, who is joyous and beaming, and lifted so far above the
cares of life, that if she were asked just now to direct a wayfarer
to Ball's Pond, where her own cares lodge, she would have some
difficulty in recalling the way. Mr Towlinson has proposed the happy
pair; to which the silver-headed butler has responded neatly, and
with emotion; for he half begins to think he is an old retainer of
the family, and that he is bound to be affected by these changes. The
whole party, and especially the ladies, are very frolicsome. Mr
Dombey's cook, who generally takes the lead in society, has said, it
is impossible to settle down after this, and why not go, in a party,
to the play? Everybody (Mrs Perch included) has agreed to this; even
the Native, who is tigerish in his drink, and who alarms the ladies
(Mrs Perch particularly) by the rolling of his eyes. One of the very
tall young men has even proposed a ball after the play, and it
presents itself to no one (Mrs Perch included) in the light of an
impossibility. Words have arisen between the housemaid and Mr
Towlinson; she, on the authority of an old saw, asserting marriages
to be made in Heaven: he, affecting to trace the manufacture
elsewhere; he, supposing that she says so, because she thinks of
being married her own self: she, saying, Lord forbid, at any rate,
that she should ever marry him. To calm these flying taunts, the
silver-headed butler rises to propose the health of Mr Towlinson,
whom to know is to esteem, and to esteem is to wish well settled in
life with the object of his choice, wherever (here the silver-headed
butler eyes the housemaid) she may be. Mr Towlinson returns thanks in
a speech replete with feeling, of which the peroration turns on
foreigners, regarding whom he says they may find favour, sometimes,
with weak and inconstant intellects that can be led away by hair, but
all he hopes, is, he may never hear of no foreigner never boning
nothing out of no travelling chariot. The eye of Mr Towlinson is so
severe and so expressive here, that the housemaid is turning
hysterical, when she and all the rest, roused by the intelligence
that the Bride is going away, hurry upstairs to witness her
departure.

The chariot is at the door; the Bride is descending to the hall,
where Mr Dombey waits for her. Florence is ready on the staircase to
depart too; and Miss Nipper, who has held a middle state between the
parlour and the kitchen, is prepared to accompany her. As Edith
appears, Florence hastens towards her, to bid her farewell.

Is Edith cold, that she should tremble! Is there anything
unnatural or unwholesome in the touch of Florence, that the beautiful
form recedes and contracts, as if it could not bear it! Is there so
much hurry in this going away, that Edith, with a wave of her hand,
sweeps on, and is gone!

Mrs Skewton, overpowered by her feelings as a mother, sinks on
her sofa in the Cleopatra attitude, when the clatter of the chariot
wheels is lost, and sheds several tears. The Major, coming with the
rest of the company from table, endeavours to comfort her; but she
will not be comforted on any terms, and so the Major takes his leave.
Cousin Feenix takes his leave, and Mr Carker takes his leave. The
guests all go away. Cleopatra, left alone, feels a little giddy from
her strong emotion, and falls asleep.

Giddiness prevails below stairs too. The very tall young man
whose excitement came on so soon, appears to have his head glued to
the table in the pantry, and cannot be detached from - it. A violent
revulsion has taken place in the spirits of Mrs Perch, who is low on
account of Mr Perch, and tells cook that she fears he is not so much
attached to his home, as he used to be, when they were only nine in
family. Mr Towlinson has a singing in his ears and a large wheel
going round and round inside his head. The housemaid wishes it wasn't
wicked to wish that one was dead.

There is a general delusion likewise, in these lower regions, on
the subject of time; everybody conceiving that it ought to be, at the
earliest, ten o'clock at night, whereas it is not yet three in the
afternoon. A shadowy idea of wickedness committed, haunts every
individual in the party; and each one secretly thinks the other a
companion in guilt, whom it would be agreeable to avoid. No man or
woman has the hardihood to hint at the projected visit to the play.
Anyone reviving the notion of the ball, would be scouted as a
malignant idiot.

Mrs Skewton sleeps upstairs, two hours afterwards, and naps are
not yet over in the kitchen. The hatchments in the dining-room look
down on crumbs, dirty plates, spillings of wine, half-thawed ice,
stale discoloured heel-taps, scraps of lobster, drumsticks of fowls,
and pensive jellies, gradually resolving themselves into a lukewarm
gummy soup. The marriage is, by this time, almost as denuded of its
show and garnish as the breakfast. Mr Dombey's servants moralise so
much about it, and are so repentant over their early tea, at home,
that by eight o'clock or so, they settle down into confirmed
seriousness; and Mr Perch, arriving at that time from the City, fresh
and jocular, with a white waistcoat and a comic song, ready to spend
the evening, and prepared for any amount of dissipation, is amazed to
find himself coldly received, and Mrs Perch but poorly, and to have
the pleasing duty of escorting that lady home by the next omnibus.

Night closes in. Florence, having rambled through the handsome
house, from room to room, seeks her own chamber, where the care of
Edith has surrounded her with luxuries and comforts; and divesting
herself of her handsome dress, puts on her old simple mourning for
dear Paul, and sits down to read, with Diogenes winking and blinking
on the ground beside her. But Florence cannot read tonight. The house
seems strange and new, and there are loud echoes in it. There is a
shadow on her heart: she knows not why or what: but it is heavy.
Florence shuts her book, and gruff Diogenes, who takes that for a
signal, puts his paws upon her lap, and rubs his ears against her
caressing hands. But Florence cannot see him plainly, in a little
time, for there is a mist between her eyes and him, and her dead
brother and dead mother shine in it like angels. Walter, too, poor
wandering shipwrecked boy, oh, where is he?

The Major don't know; that's for certain; and don't care. The
Major, having choked and slumbered, all the afternoon, has taken a
late dinner at his club, and now sits over his pint of wine, driving
a modest young man, with a fresh-coloured face, at the next table
(who would give a handsome sum to be able to rise and go away, but
cannot do it) to the verge of madness, by anecdotes of Bagstock, Sir,
at Dombey's wedding, and Old Joe's devilish gentle manly friend, Lord
Feenix. While Cousin Feenix, who ought to be at Long's, and in bed,
finds himself, instead, at a gaming-table, where his wilful legs have
taken him, perhaps, in his own despite.

Night, like a giant, fills the church, from pavement to roof,
and holds dominion through the silent hours. Pale dawn again comes
peeping through the windows: and, giving place to day, sees night
withdraw into the vaults, and follows it, and drives it out, and
hides among the dead. The timid mice again cower close together, when
the great door clashes, and Mr Sownds and Mrs Miff treading the
circle of their daily lives, unbroken as a marriage ring, come in.
Again, the cocked hat and the mortified bonnet stand in the
background at the marriage hour; and again this man taketh this
woman, and this woman taketh this man, on the solemn terms:

'To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for
worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and
to cherish, until death do them part.'

The very words that Mr Carker rides into town repeating, with
his mouth stretched to the utmost, as he picks his dainty way.